


(We Get) Nostalgic for Disaster

by fuckofagun



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Ambiguous Underage Sex, Blow Jobs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feelings!porn, First Time, M/M, slight dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:55:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23248828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckofagun/pseuds/fuckofagun
Summary: Porn with feelings, set during the soul punk era. Patrick makes a mistake, and it’s Pete’s turn to swoop in and fix it.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/OFC, Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Kudos: 15





	(We Get) Nostalgic for Disaster

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for slight dub-con with Patrick and an OFC, along with possible underage sex

Patrick never intended to get trashed beyond belief in his shiny suit and devil horns, curling up in the corner of a bar too small for anyone to know his name, his face, his voice, but he never intended for _Soul Punk_ to tank quite so spectacularly either, and that didn’t stop the critics from ripping it to shreds, didn’t stop kids from coming to his shows just to heckle (most of the time superficial barbs that he could shake off, but every once in a while, something stuck, something embedded in him deeply enough that he had to rip it free or let his skin grow over it until only a slightly discolored bump remained), so at this point, he chalked it up to another side effect of complete and utter failure.

See, Patrick didn’t drink much. He drank, sometimes socially, sometimes alone at night when ghosts of his former friends haunted his thoughts until his fingers itched to tranquilize his brain until nothing hurt, but not excessively, and not in tiny bars with a blown PA and a group of dubiously underage girls chattering with each other at the table across from his.

Similarly, Patrick never intended to actually listen when one of those girls made her way over to him, no recognition in her eyes, in her voice, in her words. She leaned over the table, blouse parting to reveal skin, so much skin, and the flash of a bra, and he found himself forgetting to ask how old she was, just leaned in and exchanged stale pleasantries. Pleasantries that led to him, back pressed against the cold, scratchy brick of the alley behind the bar, and her on her knees, one hand on his leg and the other moving on his dick, adding glorious friction to the warm, wet sensation of her lips around the head, sucking, letting out little moans as she did. In his haze, he thought that maybe the moans sounded performative, but he didn’t question it, because he was too busy yanking back on her hair and hitting his head on the brick, his moans not at all forced, or fake, or anything but breathless cries. Before they’d started, the girl had mumbled something about never doing this before, but he hadn’t listened, not really, too busying pushing her to her knees and unzipping his jeans, mind focused on the way her lips gave off a shiny glint in the filtered light of the alley.

It didn’t much matter anyway, because she seemed to have the hang of it, or maybe he was too drunk to notice if she didn’t, seeing as any sensation on his dick felt heavenly, too good to be true. His whole body was rigid with tension, with pleasure, with touchtouchtouch. He didn’t warn her when he came, and she gagged, pulling off too quickly and getting his cum all over her face, her shirt, her hands.

She left before he opened his eyes.

Somehow, Patrick got back to his apartment. Probably by way of a cab, judging by the way his wallet was twenty dollars lighter, but his memory fuzzed from alcohol and he didn’t help by downing a shot of the Jack he kept on his desk.

Against all better judgement he had ever possessed in his entire existence, he called Pete.

The phone rang, and rang, and he almost hung up, almost reminded himself that Pete wasn’t someone available for him to call, until the phone clicked and they connected.

“Patrick? What the fuck?” Not the warmest of greetings, but Patrick only grinned, madly, ludicrously.

“Pete! ‘m drunk. Can you tell?” In the back of his mind, a voice told him that maybe Pete didn’t need to know that, maybe he shouldn’t even be talking to Pete in the first place, _Jesus_ Patrick, but he shut it up.

Though the phone, Pete sighed. “You know, self-destructive benders are kinda my thing. Wouldn’t want to take away the spotlight, right?”

“Isn’t that why we got into this whole mess?” Too honest, but too late to choke it back.

A few silent seconds passed. “Maybe. Look, ‘Trick, do you need something? Because I’m kinda busy pretending you don’t exist, since you hate me now. I’m sure you remember.”

“I don’t hate you.” Patrick took a breath. When Pete didn’t respond, he kept talking, like it would keep him on the line, keep him in Patrick’s life. “I think I fucked a, uh, underage girl. Not fucked but—she blew me. And…” he trailed off, not sure where he was going with that. It would properly eat at him in the morning, along with a probable bitch of a hangover, but for now, it was more of an unpleasant echo.

“Fuck, Patrick! A fan? Please fucking say it wasn’t a fan.”

“No, no.” He hurried to defend himself, biting his lip in the process. “She didn’t know me. Or who I am, I mean. That sounds so fucked up. ‘Who I am.’ I’m not fucking anything at the moment.”

“You can’t do shit like that, ‘Trick.” Also too honest, enough to make his skin crawl even hearing it. Patrick closed his eyes, leaned against the wall, no longer willing to hold up his own weight. “I know.”

Pete sounded even more annoyed. “Seriously. You _can’t._ I can’t either, anymore. Do you get that?”

“Yeah.” No. But Pete didn’t need to know that.

Dead air hung between them for a minute too long, until Pete broke it, with “Do you still live in that shitty apartment off of fourth?”

Patrick told him that he did. Pete hung up.

To commiserate with himself over being a failure, and worse, a shitty fucking friend, or ex-friend, whatever, Patrick took another shot and stumbled over to the bed.

Pete showed up twenty minutes later, not looking as pissed as he had sounded over the phone, just worn out. Lines around his eyes looked like they had more to do with stress than age, and he hadn’t even bothered with his hair, with his clothes, just showed up in ratty old sweatpants and a shirt that he used to wear back when Patrick knew him.

 _Knew him._ God, that concept never got easier, not even with time. But, now, here he was, standing in Patricks apartment and staring at the bed, and Patrick pulled himself up against the wall, feeling like that might make him a bit better of a host.

“Pete,” he said, measured, level. To his brain, at least.

Pete moved to sit on the bed. His frown didn’t lessen. “If you need to get fucked, you don’t have to go to underage fucking groupies for it.”

“Not a groupie. Maybe not underage.”

Pete shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. You need fucked, do it with someone who knows you, knows you _well,_ or someone that’s not just a fuck. You can’t afford to screw around at this point, everyone— _everyone_ — will find out eventually.” His face was drawn up, too serious. People thought that Pete was never serious, but that was a common misconception. Pete wore his hyperactivity like a mask, concealing how deeply he analyzed everything, stored it up in his brain to use as ammunition later in fights, in interventions.

“Well,” Patrick said, feeling petulant and a little pissed off, “I need fucked. So what do you propose I do about that?” He wasn’t feeling particularly in the mood anymore, but a challenge presented itself, and it would be beneath him not to take it.

Pete didn’t even hesitate, just looked tireder, if that was even possible. “Okay. We do this, you get off, I go home, we go back to being strangers. Okay? But you have to promise you’re not going to go out and fuck more random girls, if we do this.”

And—it wasn’t as if they hadn’t joked before. Pete certainly wasn’t straight, not completely, and Patrick—well, Patrick had always wanted to try, just never had anyone to try _with_ that wouldn’t head straight to the tabloids or gossip blogs, forgoing the morning after. So—against his better judgment, if he even had that anymore— he nodded. “Yeah, alright. I don’t know how, though.” Somehow, admitting that didn’t seem shameful, not with the alcohol warping his brain.

Pete’s hand landed on his arm, moving, just moving, not asking, not yet. “I know. I’ll take care of you. Just relax, okay?”

Patrick did. He relaxed, let Pete pull of his shirt, unbutton his pants that never got zipped up again after the alley. Once Patrick was naked, the room still too hot, too stifling, Pete leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. It itself it wasn’t new, but the intent was.

“Lean back, baby,” Pete murmured, almost as though he was talking to someone else. Maybe in his head he was, Patrick couldn’t know for sure. He let Pete push him back, until he was lying flat on the bed, head cushioned by a pillow. From his vantage point he watched Pete strip, shedding all of his clothing before climbing back onto the bed and leaning over Patrick, his mouth fitting back easily over Patrick’s lips. He kissed along his jaw, down his neck, light ghosts of his lips that Patrick arched into despite himself.

“Lube? Condoms?” he whispered against Patrick’s neck, still kissing, breath hot against Patrick’s skin.

“Table,” he managed, making some sort of wild hand motion toward the small table next to the bed.

Pete paused for long enough to fumble through the drawers, returning with a small bottle and a condom. Pete popped open the bottle and coated his fingers, and gave Patrick one more lingering kiss before sliding down the bed and settling between Patrick’s spread legs. “Relax,” he reminded, and Patrick felt the stinging cold of the lube against his ass, and the blunt force of Pete’s finger. He made a concentrated effort not to moan. His dick betrayed him, already filling, clearly interested in the proceedings, but Patrick refused to make any sound that indicated enjoyment. After all, this was Pete. They didn’t speak any more, barring a few heated fights that occurred right after the hiatus began. Hiatus—as if either of them could ever again stand to share a stage. Patrick almost scoffed at that notion, but Pete stole his focus when his finger worked it’s way in, a very, very strange feeling. He tried very hard not to push up against Pete’s finger. He wasn’t sure if he was successful or not, but Pete added another one, stretching him a little bit more.

When Pete finally, finally, rolled a condom on his dick and pulled Patrick’s legs up so that they rested on his shoulders, Patrick had almost forgotten why they hated each other. Why they didn’t, not really, but said they did, because anything else would be lighting a fuse on a bomb that would destroy them both, and too many others as collateral damage. Pete’s lyrics might say otherwise, but they did like to minimize that, in general.

It hurt, and Patrick did moan, then, partially in pleasure, but partially in surprise from the pain. Pete must have caught it, because he winched, and moved a hand to Patrick’s hair, just to rub at his scalp. “It’ll hurt like a bitch, but then it’ll feel good. Okay? Just breath through it, ‘Trick. It’ll get better. I’ll make sure.”

The words all seemed like good promises, but what with the alcohol and the new sensations that that tugged at every blood cell in his body, Patrick couldn’t do much but bite back moans and wait, not thinking. Not thinking about a lot of things, actually. Not thinking about this was the first time he’d heard Pete say more than two words in person for months, not including the interviews he watched under cover of darkness, headphones in even though he lived along. Not thinking about how if the band wasn’t completely broken before, it will be now, there’s no coming back from that. It’s a gamble whether Pete will even talk to him in the morning, much less want to hear him sing ever again. As Pete pushed in and bottomed out, Patrick resigned himself to the fact that this is it. After this, he probably wouldn’t see Pete again, the band— _his_ band—would never be whole again. And it would be his own fault, for needing a goddamn blowjob so bad that he didn’t even think, didn’t consider— and now Pete was here to clean up his mistakes, even though Patrick wasn’t his problem anymore.

It filled him with a distinct melancholy that he was too out of it to examine. Thankfully, Pete chose that moment to nudge at his prostate, to send sparks up his back, make it good, to an extent, more good than bad, and he couldn’t keep from moaning any longer, even though his face flushed red as he did. He told himself he was imagining it, making up things for his own brain’s benefit, but he could have sworn that Pete looked almost happy. Not smug, not high and mighty, just happy.

That concept was too uncomfortable to examine any further. Patrick knew that smile, it was the same one he, himself, got when he did something that finally got through to Pete, finally got his head to shut up and his brain on task. If he’d been a little less drunk, Patrick would have resented that smile being directed at him.

“You doing okay, ‘Trick?” Pete’s voice cut through his thoughts, and he paused for long enough to nod, to buck up a bit for more friction, more feeling, more anything. Pete responded by fucking him harder, pressing him into the bed until the only sensations in Patrick’s world were the harsh scent of sweat in his nostrils and the sensation of Pete’s dick moving in his ass. Pete’s hand crept up Patrick’s stomach and wrapped around his dick, jacking him slowly, until all of the pressure built up in Patrick’s stomach coiled up, and he shuddered as he felt an orgasm rush over him, though him, in him, cum coating Pete’s hand.

As soon as Patrick’s orgasm subsided, Pete stilled, obviously still hard, still aching.

“You gonna get off?” Patrick asked, or tried to, words most definitely slurred and too quiet. Still, Pete shook his head.

“Nah. You did so good, ‘Trick, took it so well. You’ll stay in now, right? Call someone you trust if you need it that bad?”

Patrick recognized an out when he heard one. He tried for a shrug. “I guess. Don’t you have a kid to go be big brave daddy to? I’m not that important.” The words were too spiteful for their own good, and Pete appeared appropriately hurt.

“He’s with Ash tonight. I—called her, after you called, told her to come watch him. So I’m here until morning, and I don’t think you have the ability to kick me out at the moment.”

Patrick cocked an eyebrow. “You take care of things now.” Not a question, just a statement. “Since when did I become the fuck-up? Is that the next tabloid headline? ‘Washed Up Singer Patrick Stump Caught Fucking Minor—no, Getting Blowjob From Minor’. I thought that shit was your job.”

Pete discarded the condom into the trashed and crawled up next to Patrick, curled into the blankets next to him. “People change, I guess. I’m still like that, I just can’t afford to show it. For Bronx and Ash, y’know? They don’t deserve to suffer from my shit.”

“Why didn’t you want to get off?” That question seemed vitally important, but Pete just hummed.

“I’m taking care of you, not me. You’re drunk, ’Trick. You need sleep, not to worry about me.”

In a very, very small voice, Patrick admitted, “I worry all the time. And you—you’re not there. Because I fucked everything up.”

Pete’s head shook against Patrick’s side. “Not you. All of us. We needed time. Need time. But I could never really stay away from you, huh?”

Patrick rolled over so they they were facing each other, Pete’s hand warm in his. “Will you be here in the morning?”

Pete’s eyes crinkled. “We’ll see. Go to sleep, hon, you need it.”

Patrick didn’t want to at all, too afraid that the last time he saw Pete would be then, laying in bed after a whirlwind of mostly unsatisfying sex, but the alcohol tugged at his brain and he couldn’t quite help it, so he nestled into Pete’s chest as best as he could and closed his eyes, hoping, hoping, that when he woke up Pete would still be there.

He figured the chances of that were about fifty-fifty.


End file.
